


Cinnamon Summer

by agent_starbuck



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Angst and Porn, Cunnilingus, F/M, Season/Series 06, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2020-03-17 07:31:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18960703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent_starbuck/pseuds/agent_starbuck
Summary: She feels a chasm growing between them. No doubt the result of Diana Fowley’s recent intrusion into their lives. Jealousy isn’t a feeling she’s very well acquainted with, but she’s been so consumed by it, lately, that it threatens to rip her apart. She’s never had to vie for Mulder’s attention before, and the very notion of it, of spending every waking moment trying to prove her worthiness to him, settles like a rock in the pit of her stomach. The harder she tries, the further he pulls away.He doesn’t even look at her anymore. Not really. Not like he used to. Longingly, with eyes so soft and tender and full of wonder, it used to steal her breath away. God, she misses it. She misses him.





	Cinnamon Summer

 

_Waking in the white sun, light’s out_

_Wading through the days in, night’s out_

_It’s a slow, cinnamon summer_

_Your spell’s pulling me under_

_Rowing in a wooded hollow_

_Showing me the moves to follow_

_It’s a slow, cinnamon summer_

_Your spell’s pulling me under_

 

•••••

 

It isn’t  quite how she envisioned this happening– in some unremarkable motel on the side of the road with dingy carpet and dim lighting and scratchy, threadbare towels that chafe her skin like sandpaper.

 

She’s been in unremarkable motels like these countless number of times. Been on unremarkable cases, like the one they just wrapped up, in unremarkable towns with unremarkable diners. Miles and miles of unremarkable, open road stretched between, bleeding and blending together. The scene outside her car window is a blurred amalgamation of muted tones– cornfield yellows and meadow greens. A pastel prairie watercolor that would be breathtaking had she not seen the same scenery over and over again for days.

 

Their rental car paves a path on hot, mirage-covered blacktop through blazing flames of wheat. They endure hours of road construction– the palpable smell of asphalt and dust creeping in through the car’s vent– as Mulder repeatedly taps the radio’s seek button.

 

He’s miles away. As unreachable as that never-ending expanse of Oklahoma skyline looming in the distance.

 

She feels a chasm growing between them. No doubt the result of Diana Fowley’s recent intrusion into their lives. Jealousy isn’t a feeling she’s very well acquainted with, but she’s been so consumed by it, lately, that it threatens to rip her apart. She’s never had to vie for Mulder’s attention before, and the very notion of it, of spending every waking moment trying to  _prove_  her worthiness to him, settles like a rock in the pit of her stomach. The harder she tries, the further he pulls away.

 

He doesn’t even look at her anymore. Not really. Not like he used to. Longingly, with eyes so soft and tender and full of wonder, it used to steal her breath away. God, she misses it. She misses  _him_.

 

A hand itches to reach across the console to his forearm fiddling with the controls, selfishly seeking that connection that only he can provide, while his seeks for a song he’ll never find.

 

She sits on her hands for the remainder of the trip as dusk settles in across the heartland, painting the sky in cotton candy hues. They pull into the motel parking lot, nothing– not a word– uttered between them, as they grab their bags and head to their respective rooms for the night.

 

She feels like slamming the door shut as soon as she steps inside. Feels like burying her face in that thin motel pillow, screaming her lungs out and crying until she doesn’t have anything left. Until her heaving body furls itself into a limp ball in the middle of the bed, and exhaustion overcomes her.

 

Instead, a defeated sigh crawls its way from her lungs as she resigns herself to the bathroom, peeling off her blazer and shirt in the process and tossing them on the bed. The need to wash away that gritty layer of Oklahoma dust plastered to her sweaty skin far outweighs the need for giving in to any emotional outbursts. She just wants a damn shower.

 

Her fingers skim across the button on her slacks just as she hears a knock at the connecting door.

 

 _Jesus. Really, Mulder?_  She reaches for the shirt laid in a puddle across her bedspread before she pauses. An idea flashes through her mind. An idea so unlike her, so  _dangerous_ , her heart flutters wildly at the thought.

 

You see, there are two sides to Dana Scully.

 

There is the side that obeyed every curfew put into place by her parents when she was just a gangly teenager with a new driver’s license and an insatiable penchant for adventure. The side that always strived for straight A’s and stayed after class to go over notes with her professors, even at the derision of her peers. The side that has never, not even once, acquired so much as a parking ticket or minor traffic violation. There is her inherent need to validate herself as a professional, working-class woman equal to every man who has ever brandished a badge and a gun in the name protecting this country and its laws. The side that wears sensible PJs,  _especially_  while on assignment, and always,  _always_  after requesting separate rooms.

 

But there is also another side. A rebellious side that she rarely lets anyone, not even Mulder, catch glimpses of. The side that used to sneak outside at night to smoke her mother’s cigarettes and experiment with pot at Melissa’s friend’s house that one summer. The side that once thought pursuing a married man in med school was a sound idea and joined the FBI in spite of her father’s wishes. The side that gets drunken tattoos with psycho men in Philadelphia and brings wine and cheese to her co-worker’s room late at night to consort, even against FBI policy.

 

Those two sides now spar for dominance within. She is at odds. Rational and prudent versus impetuous and ornery.

 

She thinks of cancer and a deadman lying cold in the middle of Mulder’s living room floor.

 

Flashbacks of that night in her bedroom run unbidden through her mind– fingers poised, waiting at the hem of her t-shirt, as his words ’ _Keep going FBI woman’_  elicited a flutter of excitement low in her belly. She almost,  _almost_ ignored professional propriety by throwing caution to the wind, and stripping bare in front of her partner.

 

Fuck, propriety. Where has it gotten them after nearly seven years? All she wants, in this moment, is to see that look in his eyes. That fire smoldering behind the dark coals of his heated gaze. She wants him to see her. Really see her. All of her. And maybe it’s just a little bit uncouth of her to use her womanly wiles to achieve that goal. After all, doesn’t she work hard proving to her peers she’s more than just a nice body and a pretty face? Isn’t that why she intentionally chooses these unprovocative, baggy suits and conservative hairstyles? An armor against misogyny?

 

She doesn’t think. Merely finds her voice as she confidently answers his knock with a “Come in!” The rattle of the doorknob a counterbeat to the maddening rhythm of her heartbeat tapping against her ribs.

 

“Scully, I– Oh! Sorry, God… I thought you said come in,” he stammers as he turns to retreat back into his room before pausing in the doorway.

 

“I did,” she replies coolly, sauntering around her room to perform mundane tasks– unzipping her suitcase to retrieve her cosmetic bag and folding her clothes– in her bra as if this was completely normal behavior, letting her partner witness her without her shirt on. “I was just about to take a shower. What did you want?”

 

She doesn’t meet his eyes, terrified at what she might actually see if she does. Trembling hands move to the clasp on her pants and, in two long strides, he’s suddenly there. Right in front of her.

 

“Christ, Scully,” he breathes, strong hands stilling the movements on her waistband. Stopping her? Encouraging her? She can’t tell. “What– what are you doing?”

 

“I told you. Taking a shower,” she whispers as her eyes slowly travel up to his. All her valiant efforts at pretending this is nothing more than an attempt to taunt him, to ruffle his feathers, crack under the weight of his gaze. He stares at her with such an awestruck look of intense appreciation, she physically feels dizzy.

 

_Well, congratulations, Dana. You got him to look at you. Now what?_

 

“Do you–,” he starts tentatively, licking his lips, his gravelly voice sparking embers low in her belly, stoking the flames of her own desire. “Do you, uh, want help with that?”

 

Words catch against the lump in her throat but none escape. She merely nods, in spite of herself. In spite of every cell in her brain screaming that this is a bad idea.

 

Long, nimble fingers walk themselves over her stomach to the gun still holstered against her hip, and she holds her breath as he unclips it from her waistband, laying it on the bed, eyes never straying from hers.

 

She’d gawk at the metaphors running rampant in her mind– things about how she’s surrendering herself to him, allowing him to expose her vulnerability by removing her defenses– but she’s too overcome with lust to care. Her mind effectively going blank when his hands return to make quick work of the buttons on her pants.

 

“Tell me to stop,” he pleads as his fingers pause on the zipper, and she almost laughs because she’d love to tell him to stop, she really would, were she capable of rational, coherent thought at the moment. Turns out, having his  fingers  _that_  close  _that_  pulsing spot between her legs makes it impossible.

 

“I can’t,” she breathes. His face is only millimeters away, now, open mouth huffing ragged breaths against her cheek, as he lowers the zipper on her slacks so agonizingly slow, she feels each vibration travel straight to her clit.

 

She leans in, steadies a palm against his chest to keep herself from toppling over. The smooth material of her slacks slide down her legs to pool at her feet.

 

“Scul-ly,” he whispers so reverently, so softly, it makes her heart ache. He curls a strand of cinnamon red hair behind her ear. “God, you’re beautiful.”

 

“Then show me, Mulder.”  _Show me how beautiful._

 

And before she has a chance to contemplate whether what she just suggested was in any way a good idea, his large palm slides past the elastic of her lacy red underwear and finds her soaking heat and  _oh yes_  this most definitely was a good idea. A great idea. The best idea she’s ever had in the history of ideas.

 

His mouth descends on hers with a desperate moan, their lips beginning a frantic dance, as the tip of his middle finger teases her entrance, barely slipping past, and her muscles twitch in delicious anticipation. It’s been so long,  _too long_ , since anyone has touched her this way.

 

“M-mul–” she tries, but it quickly turns into a strangled moan as he eases two, long fingers inside her tight center.  _Oh, fuck. Yessss._

 

“Jeeesus,” he groans against her lips as he fills her, palm deep, before curling his fingers to hit that spot just there, and she can’t help the needy moan that breaks free from her throat. “You’re soaking.”

 

She knows. She can  _feel_  how wet she is against the cradle of his hand as he slowly pumps two fingers in and out. Her knees threaten to give out from all the pleasure surging through her veins. Without warning, he removes his hand and backs her up until her thighs find the edge of the bed. She’s feverish with want.

 

“Sit,” he demands, and she does, legs spread wide, while he falls to his knees in front of her, mouth impatiently carving wet kisses against the stone-sharp edge of her hip bone, marking her as his.

 

Yes, there’s something exquisite in the unremarkable, she thinks. In the rough, worn bedspread against her hypersensitive flesh. The stale, musky scent of her motel room as she breathes slow and deep. The grungy, stained walls that contain her sensual moans reverberating throughout.

 

His mouth on her aching pussy is torture of the most delicious kind. The pressure builds low against her spine as he thrusts his tongue inside her, then retreats to lave tight circles across her swollen little bud. Her hips roll and buck as he sets a continuous rhythm, her hands playing in his thick, silky hair to spur him on.

 

He knows– God, how does he know?– where to lick, how much pressure to use when he sucks, when to back off, and when to push for more. She’s sparking like a match. Every inch of her body crackling deliciously at the feel of his mouth on her. He pauses to blow a puff of cool air against her throbbing clit, as if nurturing a tiny ember ensconced in kindling, and a searing heat spreads across her tummy and chest. She can feel that familiar, raging fire start to burn within her.

 

“I'm… Fuck, I'm… gonna…” she gasps. The realization that she’s about to come this soon and this  _hard_  is almost too much.

 

“Yeah, Scully. God, come for me. I wanna see how beautiful you are when you come,” he grunts as he pushes two, then three, fingers inside, tongue resuming his eager pace against her clit.

 

A crescendo of breathy gasps escapes her parted lips, chest rising and falling rapidly as her body tenses, and within moments, she shudders and convulses around him, hips bucking off the bed, wave after wave of pleasure rippling through her body. His head rises to watch in awe as she comes apart.

 

“Christ, that was the hottest thing I’ve ever witnessed, Scully,” he groans, blazing a trail of hot, wet kisses up her stomach and chest. “So goddamn beautiful,” he mumbles against her scorching, flushed skin.

 

“Mmm, Mulderrr,” she whimpers, a sated smile stretching across her face. He presses his swollen lips against hers in a lazy kiss, and she can taste the spicy, tanginess of herself against them.

 

“You were supposed to help me with a shower, you know.”

 

“Oh, was I?”

 

“Mhmmm, and I think I would very much like to get cleaned up now.”

 

“I can think of nothing else I’d rather do.”


End file.
